Brevity of Fantasy
by NorthernTrash-x
Summary: Shunsui/Starrk. When he looked at that man, he found himself forgetting that they existed on opposite sides.
1. Brevity of Fantasy

Shunsui x Starrk, sort of

**Brevity of Fantasy **

_You must be  
__Living on wildfires  
__That's why your eyes  
__Are smoke and ash  
_Josh Ritter

He could imagine him naked.

Not that that was an uncommon thing for Shunsui- he imagined a lot of people naked, after all. Most of the people that he met, in fact: strangers on the street, people who served him in bars. He thought about his friends all the time, male and female. He thought about his subordinates in his division, and he thought about the subordinates in other divisions as well. He thought about enemies and allies, youthful and aged, although there were always a few that he managed to avoid letting his mind rove over (such as the Captain Commander, the thought of which only made him shudder, or Captain Unohana, because it just felt strangely wrong, as if she'd _know_ what you were thinking).

But still, this man he had no problem with, and from the picture that his mind was coming up with, it wouldn't be an unpleasant sight to behold, either.

He snapped back to attention at a tight noise of annoyance from Katen Kyokotsu, who was unusually tense. Normally she put up with his perversions- often, she joined in, filthy little minx that she was. He supposed it was fair enough that today she did not approve though- this really was one of those moments that Jyuushiro was always talking about, where it would be better all around for everyone if he actually was listening and not messing around playing silly games or drinking. It wasn't like he thought that there was nothing so important that it took precedent above such childish and irresponsible activities- it was just that they would have to be really, _really_ important to do so.

The old man was talking, still with that self-important air that Shunsui had grown to respect and dislike simultaneously over the many, many years.

It looked like people were listening to him, but Shunsui supposed that they could just have been pretending. All except Jyuu-chan of course- he was always the epitome of responsibility.

Shunsui glanced back at the figure that had caught his eye just before, who was now rubbing the back of one calf with the arch of his foot, hunched over slightly with his hands thrust into his pockets, obviously not listening either. Ah, a clear comrade in the war against boring speeches, it seemed! His hair was dark and hung loose and long-ish, though not as long as his own. The jacket of his uniform made his waist look disproportionately narrow- Shunsui had a suspicion that it was wider than it looked, though only broad because of muscle. The dark hint of his hollow hole was just visible, emerging from the white of his collar in stark contrast, the light tan of his skin not dulling the effect between the two.

If Shunsui had seen him in a bar, he'd have bought him a drink, had he not already found someone to interest him that night or been too incapacitated though alcohol consumption for anything to register- if he hadn't been, though, the man looked like he would be able to hold a decent conversation.

Shunsui liked people like that, people that never repeated tired anecdotes and boring queries- he found himself helplessly frustrated when people told him the same story over and over again that hadn't been particularly interesting in the first place, without realising that he had heard it before, though he always hid such annoyance with an ambiguous smile and a tilt of his hat. He supposed that's why he liked Nanao, because she was so ruthlessly efficient that she never forgot anything, and why his friendship with his dearest Jyuushiro had lasted so long, because the other man always had something new to say, some new way to make him laugh, some new method of captivating him. Some people were like that- he had liked Urahara, too, back before he had run off to whatever place he was hidden away in. Mind like a firework, that one, always sparking.

The best sorts of people, those.

His eyes flickered to the man's companion, a girl - _no, Shunsui, they're arrancar, remember? You've gotta start thinking of them as the bad guys, not as people _- she was pretty tiny, and had just turned to tug on his sleeve to make him look down at her. She was cute in a young way- too young for his tastes though. The girl looked almost pre-pubescant, and even if she had been to his liking he wouldn't have had to try hard to picture her naked, the miniscule amount she was wearing. She was an odd companion to the man - _arrancar, Shunsui _- not at all the sort of person that he'd have put him down to being a friend.

The girl - _arrancar, bad guys!_ - was saying something to him, but he was too far away to be able to tell what it was, and her head was tilted so that he could not see what shapes her mouth was forming- a shame, considering the fine art that he had got lip-reading down to, after all the practise in noisy bars.

Then, without warning, the man turned to look at Shunsui, straight in the eye.

Shunsui's breath hitched in his throat.

Now, those eyes really were something.

There was something wild about them, even from this distance- a darkness that was not of evil or malicious intent, but rather of one who had suffered and had become too disillusioned with existence for him to care too much about the outcome of this whole scenario. That was why he wasn't listening. He just didn't care about any of this. Someone like that had to have the assurance of power, of great power. Intelligence suggested that the three here would be the strongest yet, but which was the best? Shunsui did not want to wonder about that- he just wanted to see those eyes a little closer.

He couldn't tell what colour they were from here, but was certain that they were not blue or brown- not bright enough for the first, not dark enough for the second, but somewhere in between the two. He ached, suddenly, for the order to move- to single him out, and to get close enough to find out what colour those wonderfully eyes exactly were. They had him enthralled- the sort of eyes that made him want to trace pitted and hardened fingertips across the lids, underneath them, to try and wipe the shadows away.

He blinked. Had he really just thought that?

The man looked away, back to his companion, and shrugged with well-practised ease and apathy at her. She, in turn, glared at him, the sort of glare that Nanao gave him when she thought that he was being an absolute idiot and needed to sort himself out good and proper. Shunsui found himself grinning a little at that, underneath the shadow of his hat. Well, actually, now he could see why that little girl might be his companion- the man certainly had that long-suffering look that he had caught on his own face from time to time when he was trying to escape the tedium of paperwork that she was constantly trying to force him to do.

Then, everything happened, and he found his feet moving almost ahead of his mind to plant themselves firmly in front of this new enemy.

His eyes were grey, and when he shaded his eyes to look across at his opponent they seemed darker for a moment, and looked more like the steel of a heavily overcast sky right before the clouds split and drench the world in volleys of rain. The sort of clouds that birth lightning, and rolls of thunder, and made you feel alive with the raw energy that permeates the air.

Shunsui swallowed.

He could imagine those eyes staring up at him from a nest of pooled sheets and rumpled pillows, long body stretched out underneath his own, skin hot to the touch. Uniform scattered without ceremony to either side of the bed, black mixing with white and the mitigating ties and loyalties of both discarded with the clothing, the divide of race as unimportant as the crumpled sashes. Their zanpakuto would be leaning against the wall, not quite out of reach so they could relax, this man's singular one resting between the two blades of his own Katen Kyokotsu; she would be humming contentedly in his mind the way that she always did when she was pleased with herself, and his zanpakuto… well, he knew nothing about it, yet, but he supposed that it would not be unhappy with such pleasurable developments, either.

He would be reeled into the depths of those changing grey eyes- for now that the man had lowered his hand, they seemed to have a blue tint to them, like the sea on an overcast day, when the normal colour of the water would be turned to a cadet colour, wavered with darker patches that betrayed the location of coral and rocks.

Why did this man make him think of clouds? There was something of that sort of presence about him, Shunsui thought- heavy and grave, without being either. It was strange, and it was fascinating, as if there were layers of personality behind the surface that he could experience, discover, emotions that could change and move, keeping him constantly surprised, just like the colour of those eyes.

They were corrosive, reeling him inwards to shrink him down so that all he might become was the small reflection of himself in those dark pupils, surrounded by a crown of changing grey. Now they were a silvered slate as he looked up to the sun, and the brightness of it caught in those eyes and reflected back outwards like flecks of cut glass, sharp enough to cut. What colours would come next? What shade would they turn if he were to stand in a garden or park, surrounded by green? Shunsui could see him- still naked, having slipped out of their bed to slide the door open to his own small, private garden- it was no way near as beautifully tended as Jyuushiro's, but it was well enough, and he would not be looking at the plants, anyway.

The man would reach to take a leaf between his thumb and finger, rubbing it until the surface left its scent on his skin, and he would come back to the bed to offer it to Shunsui- look, what is this? Lemongrass, he would reply, and the man would be astounded, for who knew plants such as these existed?

Why would you know, when all you had ever seen was the crystallised, barren trees of Hueco Mundo?

There were so many things that Shunsui would be able to show him, so many things that would astound him.

And he would take him to the dizzying heights of pleasures, and be taken there too, one and the same together. No rules, no set pace or position or one taking the lead- different every night, because this man looked like he would prefer it that way, the way that Shunsui did too, the way when there was nothing to ever bore you and make you feel tied down to a way of living that you hadn't signed on for. He could never make Shunsui regret the way that so many others had done.

For though Shunsui fell in and out of love with the passing days with every pretty face he saw, he always ended up regretting those who fell for him, because in the end, he would have to break those pretty, petty little hearts with all the delicacy and finality that he could imagine this man here breaking the stem of a piece of grass with.

But he... he looked too strong for such a thing. Too different. Too perfect for that.

His body would move with a tensile strength, sometimes underneath Shunsui, sometimes on top of him, depending on their mood that night, and Shunsui would be able to watch the ripple of muscle underneath the layers of skin that kept them from view. He would be able to tell whether that light tan was natural, or whether it was only where he had been exposed to sun where his uniform did not cover him, and he would be able to see what was underneath those gloves. He imagined the hands to be nimble, dextrous, with wide knuckles and skin that was softer than Shunsui's own, though not the softness of women (because although that was a beautiful feeling too, it would not do in this situation).

The man would be able to do wonderful things with those hands, and would look at Shunsui whilst he was doing them with eyes that were darkened to a charcoal grey with lust, and he would, and he would…

Shunsui shook his head, cursed himself.

He'd always had an over-active imagination.

_Arrancar, Shunsui, not man. Focus, this is a war._

Katen Kyokotsu echoed the sentiment, applauding the sensibility of his mind that persisted in breaking through this most delightful of fantasies (it didn't happen all that often, she remarked snidely in his mind as his fingers danced lightly over the dual hilts of her sealed form). He sighed a little, to himself. It couldn't be helped.

He put the visual image that had quite got the better of him for a moment there to the back of his mind, and prepared to kill the arrancar in front of him. The arrancar that, for the briefest of moments, had stolen his heart.

This was war, after all.


	2. Waiting on a Dream

**Waiting on a Dream**

_You'll never catch us__  
__So just let me be__  
__Said, I'll be fine_

The days roll by.

He's done trying to chart them, trying to work out how long he has been here. Nights fade to days fade to nights again; but at times it's as if the sky never changes. Some days go quicker than others, some drag on as if eternity is imprisoned in the skyline, not letting the sun set on the horizon so the night can arrive, to pass, and let the next day come. He has to wait, wait in what feels like an endless prison even though this is the most freedom he has ever known.

He has done many things with his life, but this is perhaps the strangest.

Not because he is alone- he is used to loneliness, after all. But he _is_ alone now, and that is a change, and it did take him a while to get used to it again. When Lilynette was destroyed in battle the part of her that was him reverted back to his body, and it was strange to feel whole again, even a little unpleasant. Learning to wake up without her jumping on him was hard, at first, like losing an alarm clock whose tones you have become used to over the years. But he still hears her voice in his mind some days, so he knows she is not entirely gone.

He is not scared of being by himself again; he is waiting for someone, after all.

The days roll by; he still waits.

He watches the sun fall and rise again in a world that is so quiet he thinks he could hear his own heart beat, if he had one.

There is a room, in an abandoned building a long way away from anywhere, where he rests and waits. It took him weeks to learn to walk again; his body had been shattered by the power of the last man that he fought, and it took him a long time to rebuild everything that he had lost. He had spent nights with clenched teeth as muscle rebuilt itself, days of agony as his shattered bones re-knit the breaks. The pain had felt as endless as time itself, and he had wondered, at times, if it would have just been better to die.

He is glad now that he did not, but he knew that he would never forget those days in which he could only see the blackness of death.

He remembers being stared at though, thoughtfully, from just before, by a man trying to make a decision.

The stars shine down at him from a black sky. He is too far away from any other person for there to be any light to ruin the night view, and so he lies on dew-damp grass, in cold so sharp it would make him shiver, if only he could feel it, and he watches them, wondering how many years it has taken each star to send its light down to earth. There were no stars in Hueco Mundo. There had been no light to guide the way but the soft and unearthly glow of the shard of moonlight, reflecting off improbably white sand.

He thinks he prefers this world, to that. The sun rises here. It makes him feel more alive.

He still doesn't understand why the Captain saved his life. He still cannot come up with a reason why the man swooped down from the skies, cradled his bleeding body against his chest and moved with impossible speed. He remembers staring up from the rubble, the blood warm against his face, the sky torn apart by flying splinters of rietsu. Then the darkness. Then the pain. The pain was much worse than the blackness- at least when he was faced with only that he didn't have to deal with the painful idea of living again. There were voices sometimes, from far away, a deep male voice saying something that he just couldn't understand.

A woman's voice, too. And another man, he thought, who sounded vaguely familiar.

Then he woke, and though the light nearly blinded him and he was awake only a few seconds it was enough. He had known, then, that he was not going to die.

He remembers nothing much about the few days that followed his waking, just a blur of cool hands and a woman's kind face and a sweep of flower printed fabric. Someone must have healed him, done the things that he could not have done left alone, like rewoven the parts of his punctured lungs and destroyed heart. They had left his body then to heal itself as it could, once the vital damage had been repaired. He had managed: nothing hurt any more, except for the vague ache that he sometimes felt deep down in his chest.

He can feel the scar tissue, in his chest, right now; it was fixed by a hand much more skilled than his own.

When the blood passes through his body sometimes he tries to pretend that it is a heartbeat, but knows it is a lie.

Life is a mess of confused memories, he thinks. He remembers falling, and a soft hand.

And then there was the night air again; the tumultuous air of shunpo, where you move through rain clouds with speed enough to shatter them. He had been on someone's back, and was not strong enough to raise his head to see who was holding him. He simply stared at the moon in the sky, and wondered why he was still here.

Then he had woken again, properly this time, in this room. And though it was weeks ago now, he waits and recovers his strength, because he knows that he was not saved for a poor reason, and that his savoir will come back.

He waits. He has had an endless length of time to practice, and knows that this will be nothing in comparison.

Besides, he feels like what he is waiting for will be worth it.

Across the borders of the worlds, another man stands at his window and watches the clouds roll by, wondering whether or not it was time yet. Could this be the right moment? It was hard to tell. He had been waiting for the heat to cool down, waiting for when people would begin to come to terms with what had happened, but wounds in the mind take a lot longer to heal than wounds in the body, and injuries to the heart go even deeper. That was what this war was to the Gotei; a sudden blow to the heart, a blow of betrayal like a stab in the back, and they still hadn't recovered.

One day, he thought, he might not be harshly punished for what he did.

One day, he might even be accepted for it.

But that day was not today, and he guessed that he would have to wait a while still before he could face the man that he had saved from the final, collapsing blow of battle, longer still before the man would stop having to hide.

It had been a risk, and he didn't know if it would pay off, but he was still glad that he had taken it.

Even now, he still woke in the night with those eyes haunting him.

Strong, across the battlefield. Confused, as he woke in a strange place. Helpless, as Unohana ran her skilled hands across his ruined chest. Resigned, as he stared up at his killer from the debris of a ruined town, knowing that he was going to die.

Those grey, grey eyes, like the ash of a broken world.

He closed his eyes, and smiled to himself, and lifting his cup of sake to his mouth he sent a silent toast out across worlds, to that man's continued health.

He knows that one day someone will find out, and when they do, he will be held responsible for his actions. Regardless of how he may be punished for what he did, he knows nothing will be as bad as the guilt that he would have felt leaving such a man to bleed to death on a battlefield to which he held no alliance. This war was no more his than it was the innocents of Karakura: in those brief moments within the Espada's mind, he had understood that he was not here for any allegiance to Aizen's cause, not drawing his sword out of hatred or rage but simply out of loneliness.

When he realised that, he could not deliver the final blow.

He may have destroyed his world, but he didn't care. If he had, it was a destruction of his own making. Maybe he was getting too old, maybe that was why this apathy for rules was sinking in, why disillusion was suddenly haunting his decisions to kill. Life, he had come to understand, was too precious a thing not to protect. Life in any of it's many forms.

Especially a life so close to him, a life, he thought, that might stand side by side with his.

A soul that might, just, match his own.

One day, he thought, when the time was right, he wouldn't care anymore about this place and these rules, and he would leave.

He would go to that old, abandoned building miles from anyone or anywhere, and he would look into those grey eyes again, and explain why he did it.

He hoped those eyes would smile back at him.

_They say the captain goes down with the ship__  
__So, when the world ends will God go down with it?_

Fall Out Boy


End file.
